


Poison and Wine

by Last_Haven



Series: The Beat Goes On [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Last_Haven/pseuds/Last_Haven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Arthur and Alfred receive terrible news; Francis lets go, but Arthur knows that he could never do the same.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poison and Wine

**Author's Note:**

> From The Beat Goes On which contains various stories set in my AU as I Can't Stop Loving You. This is set a few months after the end of ICSLY. Betaread by the lovely [](http://hotbabysitter.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://hotbabysitter.livejournal.com/)**hotbabysitter**.

Senses on fire, every nerve a jumbled mess, Arthur burned like a firecracker with each shuddering breath. This should have been uncomfortable, his face buried so deep into his pillow that he could scarcely breathe and his hips held in place by Alfred’s hands; it _should_ have been awkward and uncomfortable, but the only thing swimming through Arthur’s mind was pure pleasure.

To be fair, this wasn’t the first time they had sex in the two months since New Year’s, when they decided to take that next step—and not counting that horrible incident in the shower that neither would ever mention again—but Arthur never figured being on your hands and knees with your arse up in the air a particularly romantic position. After tonight, though, he’d be willing to change that stance.

“Arthur,” Alfred panted into his ear, making Arthur moan wanton and loud, something he knew he would have to deny later. The Companion pressed a kiss between Arthur’s shoulder blades, sending a shiver straight down his spine. Alfred began to press open mouthed kisses on any speck of skin he could reach as he rocked back and forth, earning another moan. _“Arthur.”_

It was unfair that even with all this, he’d never be able to make Alfred come in return. There was something ridiculously cruel in that, he thought because surely he couldn’t have been the first person who would have wished to be able to equally please his lover in return, computer or not. Weren’t programmers supposed to think of everything?

And yet, all the same, Alfred sighed and nuzzled at his back, murmuring his name like a grateful prayer. So content to be the one to please—even if he did insist that he found the whole very enjoyable as well—was enough to make the man’s heart ache. 

One particularly well aimed thrust made stars fizzle behind his eyes, distracting him from his thoughts. He was running out of things to try to stall his orgasm. He was not going to whimper—he had more dignity than that, but oh, how he wanted to. Just as he nearly gave in to the urge, Alfred suddenly stopped moving altogether.

“Al…Alfred, what the hell are you-?” he began, trying to rock backward, remind him that they were—you know— _kind of in the middle of something._ Alfred had shifted, gaze turned up towards the ceiling, so while the friction helped, the angle was off and he missed his prostate entirely. Groaning, he tried shifted harder as he called to the computer. “Alfred, dammit, pay attention!”

“Sorry,” Alfred finally managed, blinking back into focus. “Got distracted—you have a call from Francis.”

Arthur turned his head as much as he could to glare at him. “He can _wait,_ Alfred.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, so I ignored the first two calls, but he’s calling again and he doesn’t usually call around now, so I’m starting to think it’s kinda serious-”

“Alfred,” he growled, rocking back once more so pointedly that Alfred nearly lost his grip. “Fuck me right now or you’ll be sleeping with Tony in his basket for a week.”

Alfred blinked, but then shrugged, shifting back down. “Okay, just thought I’d warn you,” he replied and then began to move once more. This time the angle was perfect and Arthur failed to bite back that whimper.

Afterward, Arthur laid in a heap on their bed where he’d collapsed while Alfred wiped his hand clean where he’d caught his lover’s spend. When Alfred moved to get up to get a wet washcloth and a towel to clean Arthur up, however, Arthur hooked one of his legs behind Alfred’s thighs, stopping him from moving, and more importantly from slipping out of him. Embarrassed as he was, when he glanced over his shoulder he found Alfred all smiles before gently settling his weight against Arthur’s back. Despite the uncomfortable feeling of sweat drying on him, Arthur hated the loss of that connection more. Flustered, he still smiled when Alfred threaded his fingers into his before raising the hand back so he could press a kiss to the knuckles. Sated, content, and most importantly _sleepy_ Arthur closed his eyes and hummed happily as Alfred pressed his head against the nape of Arthur’s neck.

The tranquility was ruined, however, when Alfred twitched violently. Before Arthur could ask, Alfred pulled his head up. “Um, Arthur—I know you didn’t want to hear this before, but Francis is calling again.”

“Oh, for the love of-” he started to growl, cursing his long time friend and closest thorn in his side for ruining the mood again. “Fine. Just—just put him on the line.”

“You got it,” Alfred chirped. Arthur turned his face away to bury it back in the pillow—there was nothing worse than watching a blank faced Alfred speak with someone else’s words coming from his lips.

_“Enfin! Do you realize how long I was trying to get a hold of you?”_

Arthur enjoyed a pillow muffled groan before lifting his head up to glare at the headboard. “And did you ever consider that maybe I was—oh, I don’t know— _busy?”_

A painful hitched breath stopped him and in spite of himself, he glanced back to Alfred’s face. Even with Alfred’s mirror smooth expression, the words that came next sent Arthur sitting up in a flurry. “I—I know, _mon cher,_ but this is an emergency.”

“Did something happen?”

Alfred was blinking now in alarm, his AI overriding part of his phone program. “Yes. Something did,” Francis managed before a sob broke through his voice.

Arthur was clean and dressed in less than ten minutes, pulling Alfred behind him even as the Companion struggled to lace his boots up.

 

 

 

Arthur hated funeral homes; no matter how homey or comfortable they tried to present themselves, they sent shudders down his spine whenever he entered one. Perhaps it stemmed from his mother’s funeral when he was young, but all the same, Arthur wished fervently that he could be anywhere else but here now.

All the same, he would not leave, not until Francis and the rest of the funeral members left as well. More than duty of pallbearer bound him there, _or_ the sheer obligation as a friend not to abandon his post. It was the memory of a warm hand in his, giving him a lifeline to cling to as his world fell apart when he was too small to truly understand his own loss. Death itself would have to struggle to pull him away from there.

Still, he was comforted that he had Alfred there with him. Even with his little foul mouthed alien laptop to distract them, Alfred was a direly needed balm to his mind. 

At least things were better now—some relations of Francis dropped in, distracting him from his sorrows for awhile so that Arthur could help settle some more plans with the funeral organizer. Somehow, between the grief and distraction of both Bonnefoy siblings, Arthur ended up as the go-between for them and the organizer. Whoever decided to make him the mediator was foolish and in dire need of a talking to in Arthur’s opinion; he had little patience for the eccentric, vampire fanged organizer who kept flitting back and forth from his office with either new questions or some insane theory about obscure historical figures. Only the constant presence of Alfred at his side kept him from blowing up at the man, something that nobody wanted. On top of that, he had to greet and mingle with the other attendees, despite how awkward he was each time he spoke to every stranger. Only familiar faces, such as Elizabeta and her husband, kept him from hiding in the bathroom.

At least the funeral itself would be starting soon; Antonio and his boyfriend had finally arrived. When Francis’s priest refused to officiate at the funeral, Lovino Vargas stepped up, despite the fact that he had left the seminary long ago. Francis managed to find a smile when Gilbert cracked some joke about having such a badly hidden closeted Catholic as a priest to a small boy’s funeral, something the Italian did _not_ appreciate. Antonio firmly scolded his friend about something to do with only Catholics being able to tease their fellow followers before Lovino had enough and punched the albino, which distracted Francis for awhile. Arthur was willing to allow any mischief as long as it kept the Frenchman amused.

And speaking of mischief, Arthur nodded to his former colleague while Ludwig pushed his brother’s wheelchair up the ramp. Gilbert nodded back to him, forcing a smirk onto his face. “Tell me, are we late enough to be fashionable yet?”

“You’d need a few decades for you to ever be fashionable, Gilbert,” Arthur quipped, raising an eyebrow at him and his brother. “Traffic problems?”

“We had to wait for Feliciano at the apartment,” Ludwig sighed to Arthur’s surprise. Before he could ask where the sergeant’s boyfriend even was, the artist came bopping in behind them.

“Sorry, lunch took longer to make than planned,” the Italian chirped, holding up a picnic basket, a bottle of wine poking out of one corner.

Arthur felt the ever present headache he been trying desperately to ignore for the last three days rear its head. “Did I not mention that lunch would be provided _after_ the ceremony and burial?”

“It’s not for him,” Gilbert interrupted, taking Arthur aback at the vehemence in the older German’s voice.

“It’s for Francis,” Feliciano murmured, fiddling with the wrapping on the bottle. “I thought a home cooked meal might be nice for him.”

Arthur blinked, but forced himself not to fidget in embarrassment. Taking a deep breath, he kept his voice as even as he could manage. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

“Hey, guys,” Alfred called, voice soft as he padded up to them. He shifted Tony from the cradle of one arm to the other so he could slip his hand into Arthur’s. Normally, Arthur would have grumbled at the blatantly public display in front of his colleagues, former or present, but he could make an exception for today and squeezed back while the Companion smiled to his friends. “Lovino and the organizer guy say they’re ready, Arthur.”

“Alright then. We should start getting people to their seats then,” he nodded.

“Would you like some assistance in getting the attendees settled into their right places?” Ludwig offered. Arthur nodded again.

“Ve…can—can I go tell Francis they’re ready?” Feliciano piped in, surprising Arthur so that he nodded without thinking. The Italian hurried past them while Alfred joined him to lead the way.

Arthur stepped out of the way so Gilbert could maneuver himself past him. However, the former policeman merely stayed in his spot, watching from the doorway as his younger brother began to direct people to their seats. “I don’t see your brother.”

Arthur bit back a sigh. “He is on his way—undoubtedly breaking every traffic law on the books to make it, I’d bet.”

“Good,” Gilbert huffed, squaring his shoulders. “I’d offer to take his place as pallbearer if he can’t make it, but since I can’t, I know Ludwig would do it.”

In spite of everything, Arthur managed a smile. “Don’t worry—even if he doesn’t, several people have already volunteered to take his place.”

Gilbert nodded, satisfied. “Good. So, where am I sitting?”

“Francis wants you and Antonio up in the front row with us and his sister. You can sit in James’s place for now, if you wish.”

“Nah, I’ll let you do that.” Gilbert grunted, Arthur’s only warning before Alfred and Feliciano return with Francis and Charlotte. “Hey there, sunshine. Shall we get in there?”

Charlotte looked instantly annoyed, but Francis’s lips almost quirked up before he nodded. “I suppose we must.”

“Well, we could always make a break for it and find a titty bar if you rather go there,” Gilbert offered.

“Why, you-!” Charlotte fumed while Arthur pressed a hand to the throbbing in his temples. Francis chuckled, but shook his head before moving to push his friend’s wheelchair into the room.

“Showtime, _mes amis_ ,” Francis whispered leading them out.

Next to him, Alfred reached out for his hand again. Just as silently, Arthur took it and gave it a squeeze as they walked up the aisle between the fold-up chairs. There was a comfortable couch at the front for them; Francis paused to park Gilbert at the side before going and sitting in the middle of the couch. Charlotte sat on one side, frowning at Gilbert as she reached for her brother’s hand. Arthur let go of Alfred’s hand, allowing him to sit at the end of the second row while Feliciano wandered off with Tony in his arms; Arthur hazarded a guess that Alfred had handed the laptop off so Tony could join him and Seborga for the ceremony. Arthur took his brother’s place at Francis’s free side. Antonio scurried from Lovino’s side over to the couch and plopped unceremoniously down on Charlotte’s free side. As Lovino stepped to a podium, clearing his throat to call everyone’s attention, Francis reached for Arthur’s hand. Like Alfred’s hand before, he wrapped their hands palm to palm, both of their grasps firm as Lovino began to talk.

For the next few minutes, Arthur focused solely on the hand in his, zeroing in on how unusually rough they felt. He hated funerals, hated funeral homes, and certainly hated having to listen to a priest—official or not—talking at one. Only the distant sounds of a door opening and the harsh pants of his brother distracted him as James tried his best to not interrupt. He let go of Francis’s hand and scooted over so his brother could take his place. With nothing to distract him, Arthur had to fight the urge to glance back over his shoulder to Alfred—if he did, he knew the Companion would smile reassuringly to him, perhaps even glance longingly back. Instead, Arthur forced himself to focus on the swirling pattern of the carpet until his brother jostled him painfully with his elbow.

Rather than curse at James, he merely stood and followed as they walked past the casket.

Inside, Mathieu looked very much as if he was shut down, just as Alfred had when he died—(and it was a death, despite what one attendee had grumbled. Only the timely intervention of Alfred _and_ Elizabeta stopped him from belting the person across their face)—the laptop’s hands clasped around a small stuffed bear that Charlotte placed there. His hair was carefully combed, only his one long curl remained unchecked. Arthur couldn’t stand to look long, memories bubbling up of afternoon teas with Francis while Alfred and Mathieu played next to them. He frowned when Gilbert tossed in what appeared to be a miniature bottle of maple syrup into the casket as well, wondering if the former policeman had bothered to ask anyone for permission before adding the bottle. Another memory, of Gilbert laughing hysterically while he and Francis gaped in horror at the two laptops covered in a syrupy mess, tried to worm its way to the forefront of his mind. Only sheer willpower kept him from focusing on it long.

Quickly as he could, he shuffled past the casket, heading back to the couch. He waited as the procession of attendees walked past the casket, most only giving a polite glance before wandering back to their seats. At last, the final mourner shuffled back to their seat; Arthur and James rose once more. Arthur heard Alfred join them as they walked back to the now closed casket.

The next few minutes blurred. Arthur knew, rather than remembered, that they bore the casket out to the waiting hearse. There must have been some awkward minutes of small talk as they waited for everyone to get to their cars. His next distinct memory is squeezing into the backseat of James’s car, trying to avoid being elbowed in the eye by Alfred as they all piled into the tiny vehicle. The drive to the cemetery was nothing memorable—he had been down these streets before, patrolled them, and dropped in on the stores lining them. Nothing felt significant about the drive, even when Alfred shifted with a sigh and rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder.

He remembered it started raining when they got out of the car, just a light mist so people forewent their umbrellas while the cold rattled their chests. It felt like a frost was creeping into his lungs as they walked to retrieve the casket again.

He forgot about the trek through the cemetery, forgot about standing next to Alfred behind Francis, and forgot whatever it was Lovino said over the grave.

And then it was done. People walked away, heading to their cars so they could go to the luncheon, almost keeping respectfully quiet as they wandered out of the graveyard. Alfred tugged his wrist along with them as Charlotte pulled Francis up. James all but shoved him into the backseat again before they drove off.

By the time they arrived, a small voice in the back of Arthur’s head announced that it was done. He felt drained—exhausted, really—and every moment he spent there another of thread of his stoic grip on his emotions snapped from the sheer weight of the exhaustion. Every brush from a passing mourner, every dutifully courteous greeting, every sound of the scrapping of silverware against the plates weighed on his control.

There was only one reason to remain and it was the best reason.

An hour dragged its carcass through the lunch until the guests began to make an early escape. Arthur let someone else take the chore of saying seeing those people off; instead he remained in his wobbly fold up chair, the metal of which never warmed up so a chill bit at the backs of his legs. Alfred shuffled his chair closer to his, tugging on Arthur’s sleeve until the man slipped his hand under the table to twine his fingers with the Companion’s.

 _I want to go home_ echoed between.

Arthur squeezed his hand in silent agreement.

Twenty minutes passed before the bulk of the mourners left; Charlotte walked over to Arthur to say her thanks before explaining that they could handle the rest from there. He opened his mouth to argue and fight back the guilty feelings of relief bubbling up in his gut, but Alfred swayed closer, their shoulders barely brushing. Arthur’s mouth shut and he nodded.

He had no clue what to say to Francis when he walked over to say goodbye. He found the Frenchman sandwiched between Feliciano and Antonio, murmuring softly to the pair. Francis stood to greet him, but before Arthur could blurt out a sorry excuse, Francis tugged him closer for a hug. “Thank you for the help, Arthur.”

“Yes, well…” Arthur tried before giving up and nodded. Francis ignored the social flub and focused on ruffling Alfred’s hair affectionately.

Outside, the chill of the air punched life back into Arthur’s lungs; Alfred tapped his knuckles with a concerned look on his face. Instead of reassuring the computer, Arthur pulled his collar of his coat up before grabbing Alfred’s hand. The Companion didn’t fight the grip and quietly tucked Tony more firmly into his coat before walking alongside Arthur.

The walk back to the apartment was frigid and silent, neither saying a word as they walked down the streets. Even when they got back home they were silent, quietly separating so Arthur could put their coats away while Alfred took Tony over to his makeshift bed of blankets and a clothes basket. 

Walking past the two computers, Arthur slipped into the bedroom. Gazing longingly at the bed and wishing that he hadn’t bothered to climb out of it at all that morning, he tugged off his tie and then his suit jacket.

Carrying the jacket over to the closet, he paused as he opened the door. After hazarding a quick glance over to the door and seeing it empty, he kneeled down and moved some blankets that sat on a cedar box. The box was tucked neatly away from sight; Arthur had dutifully stashed it there months ago. Pressing his hand against the lid, Arthur mused about the contents.

After Alfred’s laptop unit had stopped functioning, Kiku had offered to discreetly get rid of it. The thought was too much for Arthur to bear, so he took it back once Kiku had collected all the data he could from it. After much agonized thinking, he settled on laying the unit into the box and tucked it away from sight.

What would Francis say to him about the box? _He_ had buried Mathieu quietly, dignified. Arthur hid his laptop away like a grim keepsake. Would Francis understand or would he mock Arthur for refusing to let go?

“Arthur?”

Arthur started and glanced over his shoulder; Alfred was staring at him from the doorway. Quickly tossing the blankets back onto the box once more, Arthur left his jacket on the closet floor and stood. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

Arthur paused, glancing back at the closet. “Nothing,” he said at last. He turned his gaze from the insides and instead focused on fiddling with his belt until he finally managed to free it from the last belt loop. As he tossed it carelessly inside, a pair of arms circled around his shoulders. Alfred tucked his head against the side of Arthur’s neck, his glasses digging in to the space behind Arthur’s ear as he sidled up closer. Arthur froze before slowly relaxing in to the embrace, his hands sliding up to grip Alfred’s arms. “What do you need, love?”

“Can we go to bed?”

The idea was ridiculous—it was barely past five in the afternoon; late winter light managed to fight into the room. Arthur sighed, oddly relieved. “Of course.”

Neither bothered to undress themselves. Alfred only toed off his dress shoes before sliding into the bed, suit and all. Arthur climbed in after him, shifting over until they easily entangled their limbs together. Despite the daylight and the chill outside of the covers, Arthur curled into Alfred, tucking his head against the Companion’s shoulder without another thought.

The silence hung above them, suffocating Arthur slowly, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. At last, Alfred broke it for him.

“Hey, Arthur? Can I ask you something?”

Arthur managed a nod.

“Why didn’t you get rid of my old unit?”

Ice gripped Arthur’s heart and froze the rest of his body. It was sheer force of will that managed to get his words out. “What’s that?”

“My old unit. You were looking at it. I know it’s in there.”

Arthur sighed and glanced upward.

Alfred had the decency to shrug sheepishly. “I thought you were hiding presents.”

Biting back a gruff laugh, Arthur closed his eyes. “You would.”

Silence tried to stretch out between them again, but Alfred was nothing if not persistent. “Arthur?”

There wasn’t any avoiding this question, apparently; Arthur hesitantly opened his eyes but kept his head tucked against Alfred’s shoulder. “Because…” he tried. “I just couldn’t.”

“Why?”

 _You always had to be the curious one, didn’t you?_ he wondered without any bite, but knew that Alfred wasn’t going to just let him off the hook this time. After another long moment of silence, he had to answer once Alfred started to prod his side. “I couldn’t bring myself to just toss you out like the trash.”

Alfred breathed noisily through his nose—a habit he’d picked from Arthur himself. “But _why?_ You had me in _this_ unit. Why keep that one?”

He ran his thumb against the Companion’s false collarbone. “Memories, I suppose.”

The computer shifted around—the answer hadn’t appeased him, but it was still an answer. He spoke again after another moment of ceaseless shifting. “Why did Francis bury Mattie?”

 _Because he’s a bigger man than me._ “Francis was ready to let go, I suppose.”

“…Will Francis buy another laptop?”

Arthur fought back a sigh. “I don’t know—that’s up to him to decide.”

There was another silence; Arthur waited through it uneasily, knowing already that Alfred wasn’t finished just yet. At last, Alfred spoke again. “If I stopped working again, would you bury me?”

Before he could stop himself, Arthur bolted upright. “No!” he snapped. Alfred stared up at him in wide eyed shock; Arthur felt heat burning his cheeks, working its way into the tips of his ears before creeping down the back of his neck. “No, I-” He couldn’t hold the gaze anymore. He looked away, slowly lowering himself back down. “I could never do that.”

 _Well, I’ve really gone and botched that one up,_ he mused, letting his burning face rest into the mattress as his embarrassment worked to eat him alive.

A gentle tugging on his sleeve slowly coaxed him to glance upward. Alfred, his own cheeks stained pink, shifted closer until he could press their foreheads together. “Is it okay if I’m happy about that?”

His stomach did an odd flip, but he managed a small nod. Stretching out, he met Alfred for a kiss.

The heat from his face eased from embarrassing to warming, settling into his bones until he felt human again. Sighing against Alfred’s mouth, Arthur felt the chill finally flee.

  
  



End file.
